when you kiss me i am happy enough to die
by vindictive trollop
Summary: When she saw him for the first time in fifteen years, she collapsed—and then she wept.
1. you inspired a fire of devotion

**Today I learned that Florence + the Machine lyrics make for really good Bellamort fic titles.**

 **Even though the status is "complete", there might be a chapter two. Maybe. Probably not. Who knows?  
**

* * *

When she saw him for the first time in fifteen years, she collapsed—and then she wept.

It was a burning, building thing that crept all the way up from her stomach into her chest and then her throat until she was sobbing. Each sob felt like a year's worth of them. Her throat was dry and her skin was slick with adrenaline-caused sweat, her nails long and dirty, her hair matted and filthy; there were no baths in Azkaban, no three-meals-a-day, no hairbrushes, no – no anything, nothing at all. There was only darkness and filth and dementors that patrolled up and down outside their cells and the only thing that kept her alive, or so it felt, was the mark on her wrist.

She had spent most of her days staring at it. No, she had spent all of her days staring at it; her salvation, her only reason for _being._ Or, rather, it was not the mark that was her reason for being but the one who had given it to her. And the Dark Lord had come for them—no, he had come for _her,_ his most loyal, his most faithful...he was beautiful, she could not help but think that over and over, he was beautiful. Glorious, a statue robed in darkness with paper-white skin and red eyes that stared down at her with—

Fondness. It was fondness; it must have been, and even if it was not, even if she was mistaken, it would not matter. He had come for her. He had come for her, just as she'd always known that he would, no matter how long she'd had to suffer and wait, he had come. _He had come!_

She crawled on her hands and knees to settle at his feet, limbs trembling despite her best efforts to maintain just the right position to kiss the hem of his robes. She managed fine until he laid a hand on her head, until he _touched_ her – his hand was cold against her scalp, and she fell again with a heaving sob. "My Lord, my Lord," she chanted throughout her weeping, unable to control herself, "My Lord, I knew you would come. I knew. I always believed, master, I always believed, always..."

She touched his robes, fingertips fleetingly brushing over his legs, reaching up to his arms, anywhere she could touch she would until she was kicked away, but she was not. He stayed there, watching her make a fool of herself – but even then, she could not care, because he had come for her, he had _saved_ her. Her master knew her loyalty, knew her unending faithfulness, and he had _rewarded her for it._

He had rewarded her. Oh, yes. All the others—they doubted, they always doubted even if they pretended not to, but she had never. Not once. Not once. And he knew this. Of course he knew this.

She looked at his face, but not into his eyes—never into his eyes. His face, though...his form, his long thin-fingered hands, she could spend days staring at those. She could spend eternity just staring, knowing that he was _here._ He was here, not some dream (or, sometimes, a nightmare, where he would look at her and she would reach out for him and then he would be gone and she would wake up, shrieking, begging for him to return) or hallucination.

This was no figment of her imagination. "I know, Bellatrix," her Lord said, and for a moment she was struck by confusion until she realized that her mouth was still moving, muttering those same words, _I believed, I believed._ And she fell silent at his voice, her stammering ended by a sharp gasp of what was pure worshipful pleasure as she heard his voice, cold and yet soft—her shoulders shook with the force of her sobbing still.

They came in such strong waves that she thought she was going to vomit, at one point, but she did not. He touched her shoulder, fingers curling around the sharp point of her shoulder blade.

"My most faithful," he said, and she did not know why she suddenly tasted blood until she realized that she had bitten through her tongue to keep quiet, and then the pain of it arrived shortly after but nothing compared to the elation bubbling in her chest, her stomach, her _head._ Everything hurt and she was filthy, unfit to be touched by Him, but she was so—

She was so _happy._

Her sobs turned into laughter, and she clung to his robes, and he allowed it.

"Leave," he said, and her laughter tapered off, and her elation drained from her as easily as anything. She looked up at him, a gasp caught in her chest—surely he was not sending her away. But he was not looking at her; he was looking over her, at them. At all of the rest. At Cissy, who was standing hesitantly amongst them all, waiting until their Lord was finished with her so that she could take Bellatrix away to be cleaned up; at Rodolphus, who had prostrated himself before the Dark Lord – as he should – but now looked so still that he could be mistaken for being asleep.

And at all of the others, all of the others who were far less loyal than her, those who had doubted and those who had forgotten. That _pleased_ Bellatrix, so very much—Lucius was one of them, standing there beside her sister, as pretty and blond as ever, and the Dark Lord was telling them all to _leave._

But not her.

"My Lord?" Cissy's voice shook as she spoke, her eyes wide and desperate, shooting between their Lord and Bellatrix, but Lucius bowed deeply at the waist and then took her sister's arm and gently guided her from the room followed by all of the others—and so they were left there, alone. Together.

Bellatrix didn't look up at his face again—instead, she bowed her head and waited for him to speak, trying to keep herself from weeping further. She was filthy and cold (she was always cold, always), not the proper image one should display in front of the Dark Lord, and she was trembling and starved (she was always trembling and always, always starved) but Bellatrix thought that she would have very much liked to stay here for the rest of her days—where she belonged. In her Lord's presence.

"Stand," he said, so softly that she almost didn't hear him; she obeyed immediately, as quickly as she possibly could, standing on wobbly legs that threatened to give out from under her—but she looked at him and it gave her a sort of strength, and so she straightened as much as she could; pushing her shoulders back, holding her head high.

He reached out for her, and something inside of her quivered and melted when he touched her—his skin was not warm, but it was warmer than hers, or at least that was the way it felt, and his fingers trailed along the hollow curve of her cheek, stroking. "My Lord," she breathed, filled with that same elation, wanting to laugh and wanting to cry—she did the latter, tears dripping down her cheeks.

She stayed there for what felt like a very long time, feeling irrevocably trapped in his gaze, and it was not as though she would have it any other way.

And then the Dark Lord swept his hand downwards, fingertips skirting over her throat, the boniness of her shoulder, tracing her every feature and every bone that jutted out underneath her pale flesh; and she did not understand. He was not speaking to her; he was only staring at her, his eyes roaming again and again and again over her face in such an intent way that it made her shiver, his hands touching her, sliding up and down her arms, brushing over her chest, her throat, her lips, through her hair.

"I missed you, my Lord," Bellatrix whispered, not quite daring to speak any louder than that.

He paused; his fingers paused where they were curled around her fragile, bony wrists.

She did not take it back; she did not blush or stammer like a schoolgirl who had not meant to let it slip out. She hadn't, of course—not really, but now that it was out, now that she _had_ said it, she did not regret it at all. She wanted to say it again, in fact—wanted to take the opportunity to turn her head into his palm as he touched her face and kiss his wrist, wanted to worship properly.

She was still crying even minutes later when he was done exploring her body, or what he could reach of it, touching every inch of her as though he thought she would eventually disappear, disintegrate right underneath his fingertips—(just like he had always done in her dreams, her nightmares, her hallucinations, but she had never gotten close enough to touch him in her dreams)—tears rolling over her flesh and leaving comparably clean tracks in their wake on her dirty face.

She was crying—joyfully, though she had stopped both sobbing and laughing because she wanted none of that to disrupt this moment—even as he pulled her forward and kissed her.

It was so quick that she had no time to react, and then he drew away, leaving her wanting. She wavered on the spot, feeling dizzy and exultant, full of a rapturous feeling that would not truly vanish for a very long time because she was no longer in her little cell in Azkaban—she was with her Lord.

"Welcome home, Bellatrix," said Lord Voldemort, and sent her away.


	2. i loved you from the start

**I didn't mean to continue this, really, but then it just happened. But this really _is_ the end. The very hastily and terribly-written end. Promise.**

* * *

Cissy washed her—bathed her six times to clear all of the dirt from her skin, cut the tangles and knots from her hair, brushed it out afterwards. Sometimes, Cissy would hum under her breath and Bellatrix would tell her to shut up, but in a voice so fluttery and weak with her head lolling against the back of her tub because she was so tired and the water was so warm that Cissy never took it seriously, like she should have.

Her sister smelled like – well, like she'd always smelled, and Bellatrix thought it was somehow comforting, and hated it because of that. Only the presence of her Lord was truly comforting. But this was...well, this was perhaps a second best.

After they were done, she smelled like clean and warm, like soap – not like bodily fluids and dirt and cold. Cissy showed her in the mirror, and Bellatrix realized with a thrum of surprise that she hadn't looked in a mirror for fifteen years, just like she hadn't done a lot of things for fifteen years. And she looked...different. That shouldn't have been surprising. It had been fifteen years, after all, she was bound to look different. But she looked like a hollowed-out shell of her former self, and she realized then that Cissy had not only cried when she had first laid eyes on her because it was the first time she was seeing her sister in such a long time, but also because of the fact that Bellatrix looked like a corpse.

Bellatrix tilted her head, reached out to touch the glass—her finger left a smudge on it—and edited that thought: she only looked somewhat like a corpse, but that was corpse-like enough.

"I want to see Him," she whispered, after Cissy lead her from the bathroom, those were her first words—she said it again when Cissy only looked at her stupidly, like she didn't understand that very clear demand, "Take me to the Dark Lord, Narcissa." Her voice rose on her sister's name, into a half-shriek, not so loud as to draw unwanted outside attention but loud enough to draw Cissy's attention.

"Sleep, first," her sister said, leading her to the bed. Bellatrix nearly moaned when she first sat on it. It was so soft and...it was a _bed,_ not a cold stone floor beneath a window.

Still, she spat, "No," and Cissy stared down at her with sad, soft eyes.

Bellatrix felt like slapping her but she didn't know if she could even lift a hand properly. All of her bones felt like steel weighing her body down into the bed.

"I promise you will be taken to Him as soon as you have slept a while." Before Bellatrix could open her mouth, Cissy continued firmly, "It is non-negotiable."

Bellatrix mimicked her in a whiny, high-pitched voice, "It's non-negotiable."

Cissy rolled her eyes and leaned down, over her. For a moment Bellatrix thought she would do something like kiss her forehead, but her sister only brushed a hand over the top of her head and straightened again, her eyes wet and her mouth quivering.

Bellatrix was the one rolling her eyes this time. "You're not going to cry, are you?"

Cissy drew in a long breath and finally shook her head.

"Good," Bellatrix said, and closed her eyes.

* * *

The first thing she saw when she awoke and opened her eyes was the Dark Lord.

He was sitting at her side in the chair by the bed, his gaze fixated on her face, and the minute she saw him she scrambled to rise up and out of the bed—but she became tangled in her sheets and her trembling hands could not lift them away quick enough, and he reached out and put a hand on her shoulder; he pressed, slowly, and she lowered herself back into the bed, never looking away from his face, and he never looked away from hers.

There was silence for a moment; and then she swallowed, opening her mouth. The first attempt was a hoarse croak, because her throat was so dry that it hurt to speak, and the second attempt was more successful, though still raspy and broken. "My Lord, was there something you wanted of me?" Her heart beat in an unsteady, quick pattern in her chest.

The answer was no. He shook his head, slowly, and her thrumming heart dropped and stilled in her disappointment. Bellatrix did not mean to frown, but she did—she glanced up at him from beneath her eyelashes. "Nothing at all, master?"

To that he did not respond; instead, in the silence that fell over them, he leaned forward and touched her, very gently, his skin cold and dry against her heated flesh; he touched her hand and then her neck, pausing at both pulse points. It fluttered against her Lord's fingertips, quick as her heartbeat, and he was so quiet and still, his face not twisted in any kind of a disapproving sneer. His red eyes reflected no emotion.

And so without thinking, she reached out to touch him in return, just a brush of her fingertips against his robed arm, as close to him as she dared without climbing out of bed and prostrating herself before him. She recoiled immediately when he looked at her face, eyes narrowed slightly though the air did not thicken with its anger like she was used to; she bowed her head, curls spilling around her face and darkening her vision.

She caught only a glimpse of his pale hand in front of her face before it was pushing through her hair, clearing it away from her features; his fingertips caught in a knot and pulled straight through, causing a pained whimper to escape before she could possibly reel it back in; but when she looked up at him, the brief echo of that pain seemed to fade into a sudden longing to touch him again, anywhere, so long as she was close to him.

He stroked the contours of her face, his thumb brushing over her cheekbone; and right then, she had a sudden thought that she did not and would never understand why others flinched away from this, why anyone would ever recoil and cower away from this precious touch – but then, no one would ever be gifted with this same touch, ever. She was his most loyal, most faithful, most gifted—she knew this, and knew with just as much solid certainty that the Dark Lord would never do this with anyone else.

But if he did—they would be fools to turn it away.

Bellatrix realized that her eyes had fallen half-shut and her lips had parted, but the Dark Lord did not seem to notice either of those things, and if he did he did not say so, did not make it obvious—he only kept touching her, leaning so close to her that if she moved just a little forward she could kiss him; he slid both of his hands down her arms, over her sides, down her back in the very same way that she had been touched by him in his throne room.

Bellatrix realized something with a thrum of surprise and lovely pleasure—it was much in the same way that she wished she could touch him.

With _reverence._

"I did miss you so, Bellatrix," he whispered, and she felt as though she was spinning—or perhaps the room was spinning, or perhaps everything around her was spinning and falling into an array of white flashing stars in her vision, and she felt vaguely nauseated and shaky, and then it was all consumed by darkness and she was falling, falling, falling...

* * *

She opened her eyes and sat up so quickly that the room spun much like it had before, and she looked to her left where the Dark Lord had been and he was still there, watching her. "My Lord," she breathed, and her head pounded and ached. She lowered it into her hands, trying to ease that pain by rubbing her temples, but it did not work; the ache persisted. "What happened?"

"You fainted, Bellatrix," was his reply, and he almost sounded amused – but his face was, as ever, cold and still. She blinked rapidly, feeling weak, and she laid back down—it was a position preferable to being upright. She tried to remember—and she did, after a few moments of pressing past the confusion, and she felt herself flush, felt her eyes widen. She _had_ fainted.

In front of the Dark Lord.

She turned her head into the pillow, biting the inside of her cheek until she tasted a burst of blood in her mouth— _stupid, stupid, stupid._ "I—my Lord—" she gasped, prepared to make a thousand apologies for such a stupid mistake, but before she could so much as try, he lifted a hand and all of her words dissipated in her mouth.

"Calm yourself, Bellatrix," he said smoothly, eyes intently fixated upon her visage. And then, "Lest you have another...fit," he added, with a sort of emphasis on the word _fit,_ and she could imagine how red in the cheeks she looked now, could feel her embarrassment, a thicker and more unpleasant version of the feeling than she'd ever encountered.

"I am sorry, my Lord," she whispered softly, not looking at him.

"Will you do it again?" he asked, and it sounded like a genuine question and so she gave it genuine thought—after a moment, she sat up again and this time it was with less dizziness. She carefully slid to the edge of the bed, as close to him as possible and as subtly as she could though she knew her Lord was watching every movement, subtle or not, and she shook her head carefully.

"No, my Lord."

"Good," he said, and touched her hair.

Bellatrix swallowed. "My Lord?"

"Yes?" he murmured, turning the word into a slow hiss as he toyed with one of her curls.

"You—you said..."

He glanced at her face, and his hands stilled. She almost whined—that was not what she had wanted him to do, not at all, but she would be a fool to demand a continuation of his caresses and so she did not. Bellatrix was many things, but she had never been a fool, certainly not in the presence of her Lord.

"You said that you..." She swallowed again, feeling as though there was something in her throat that kept her from speaking. "...you missed me."

"Yes," he said, somewhat impatiently. "What of it?"

Bellatrix's heart fluttered. It had not been a mistake, then. She hadn't simply—dreamed all of it up. She hadn't imagined it. She hadn't heard something different than what he had actually said, though she wouldn't know what sounded so like _I did miss you so._ It was real. He had truly said it. She shook her head, keeping her eyes on his face—it was always an honor to be in the Dark Lord's presence, and it was most certainly an honor to be touched by him like this, and –

He had missed her.

It was the truth, Bellatrix knew, for if he had not, he wouldn't have ever said it at all. The Dark Lord was not in the business of saying things just to comfort others, just to make others _happy._ If he said it, then he meant it, and...and Bellatrix blinked multiple times in succession, trying to lessen the sudden stinging wetness of her eyes.

"Thank you, my Lord," she said, and her voice was so soft and quiet that she would not be surprised if he had not heard her at all, but he looked at her and she knew that he had.

He stood from the chair, and she opened her mouth and shut it just as quickly before he could see; still, as he looked at her, she knew that he knew that she had been about to protest. The Dark Lord stared down at her for a time, not nearly as long as a minute. "Rest, Bellatrix," he said coolly, all trace of emotion gone from his face—the amusement at her embarrassment, the near-reverence with which he had looked at her with before that.

She bowed her head. "Yes, my Lord." He turned and left the room without another word, and Bellatrix laid back, staring at the ceiling for a few minutes. His command had been to rest, but now she felt as though she could do anything but. Bellatrix lifted her left arm, staring at the Dark Mark. It was a vivid, inky black against her skin; she slid her right hand over it, tracing its every dark curve.

That was how Narcissa found her an hour later, curled on her side, stroking her arm, eyes wide and intent and fixated upon the Mark as though it would disappear if she looked away from it for a second.

Narcissa watched Bellatrix—who had not noticed her presence and who Narcissa suspected would not care for anything that anyone had to say to her except for the Dark Lord himself—for no more than a minute; and then, heart aching, she took a careful, step backwards into the hall and closed the door behind her.


End file.
